


something they forgot to label fragile (now i'm stuck)

by sunflashes



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mania Tour, Post-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy), Slight AU but not really, and also a slight au bc of some tour logistics that aren't real, lots of taking care of sick!trick, mostly just an au bc they're not a couple irl, no gore i promise, patrick cracks a rib don't worry about it there's no gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 18:19:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15869154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflashes/pseuds/sunflashes
Summary: Patrick cracks two ribs falling onstage at Wrigley Field and Pete takes care of him both physically and emotionally. Featuring stuffed bears, copious takeout, many Great British Bake Off references, and a second chance.





	something they forgot to label fragile (now i'm stuck)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littlesnowpea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesnowpea/gifts).



> in this very very slight au, pete and patrick are in an established relationship where they live together. they have one house in california and a condo in chicago. they don’t have any kids, are not married or engaged, and this takes place actually slightly in the future, ie during the week of september 8 2018 at their wrigley field show during the mania tour. i will actually be at that show, just to add to the hilarity of this. also sorry for the many chicago deep cuts but i will literally take any excuse in any situation to shit on rahm fucking goddamn assclown emanuel. [my beautiful angel littlesnowpea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesnowpea) this one’s for you babe. title comes from city in a garden, enjoy this nonsense i guess

It was going to rain at Wrigley. The understandably stressed members of Fall Out Boy sat in their third logistics meeting of the morning, debating cancelling the show. 

“We can’t do that,” Andy said for what he was sure was the hundredth time in as many hours. 

“I’m not comfortable with all the gear getting rained on, guys.” Brian, the tour manager, put his foot down. 

“Can’t we just see what happens? It might not rain all day. It’s not raining now,” Pete gestured to the sky outside the John Hancock Building’s windows. It was mildly gray, with patches of clear sky.

“Yeah, okay, but…” And Brian gestured to the north-facing windows, where an ominous looking dark gray tone looked to be creeping south from the suburbs. 

“Listen.” Patrick said quietly but emphatically. All heads swiveled to do just that. “We are not cancelling Wrigley. We’ve played in the rain before. All we have to do is use the rain roof on the stage and add some ponchos into our overhead cost.” 

“I don’t like the risk, but he’s right,” Joe pointed out. “We’ve done this before with no issue, and cancelling at Wrigley… I mean, we’ve waited our whole lives for this.” 

“Fine,” Brian relented. “We’ve got to get waivers and shit, but I get it. Now go get ready. You idiots are headlining Wrigley.” 

\---

It poured down at about 4:30 for twenty or so minutes. The crowd was not enjoying themselves and Rise Against pushed back their start time, leaving people miserable and wet and waiting. Patrick did everything he could to get Brian and the crew to secure the stage, and finally the rain let up and Rise Against headed on.

“It’s okay, Trick.” Pete came up behind Patrick backstage and wrapped his arms around his waist. 

“It’s not,” Patrick turned around in Pete’s grip and put his arms around Pete’s neck. “I don’t like the thought of our fans getting soaked like this and I hate that they keep having to push it back. I say we just do our set at the scheduled time and keep all the way to the back of the stage if we have to.” 

“Whatever you want, honey. We’re going to do this, okay?” 

“Okay,” Patrick said and buried his face into Pete’s shoulder in a fierce hug. 

“Hey,” Pete squeezed him tightly and murmured into his hair. “It’s going to be okay.” 

“Thank you,” Patrick turned his head and kissed Pete’s cheek. 

\---

“CHICAGO!” Patrick strode out onstage at Wrigley Field, shouting his love for his city into the mic. It was barely raining, just a light drizzle, and Brian had given them the go-ahead. “We fucking love you!” 

Patrick clapped the mic into the stand and they ripped into Lake Effect Kid. 

It was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Joe’s tech had tuned his guitar three times to make sure it matched up with Patrick’s sound scheme. The way the opening riffs echoed against the walls of Wrigley fucking Field would stay sweet in Patrick’s memory as one of the coolest fucking things that had ever happened to him. 

They breezed through six songs and Patrick was honestly enjoying the feeling of the cool fall drizzle against his face as they played. He decided to venture out into the open front of the stage as they switched out his guitars. Pete was monologuing, trying to trick the crowd into thinking they were going to play Alone Together before pulling a bait-and-switch into Carpal Tunnel of Love. 

Patrick accepted the guitar from his tech and swung it around his back as Joe ripped into the opening lick to Carpal Tunnel and the crowd went absolutely apeshit crazy. 

“We’re throwing stones at a glass moon,” Patrick howled, handing his guitar off to the waiting roadie and climbing up the slope to Andy’s drum platform. He kicked his leg out and launched into that fuckass ear-splitting high note and his other leg slipped off the edge of the platform. 

Later, he found out he had hit the edge of the platform with first his side and then his head. All he could remember was the pain. It hit him like a fucking truck. He rolled onto his side on the stage, letting his mic roll away from him, and curled up into the fetal position. He was unsure of what the sudden sound and rush in his ears was and why it felt like he couldn’t breathe from the sheer, unrelenting pain. He was told later that that sound was his own screaming, heard as though it came from somewhere else. Pete’s face appeared above him, horrified, and Patrick reached out to him with shaking hands as though that would solve anything. 

“Call a fucking ambulance now!” Patrick could barely hear Joe yell through the pounding in his ears. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think from the pain, he just held on to the front of Pete’s hoodie. Pete was crying and screaming at whoever else was on the stage. He grabbed one of Patrick’s hands and let Patrick squeeze it as hard as he needed. 

“Don’t worry, oh baby don’t worry, I promise you’re going to be okay.” 

“P-please, Pete, I--” Patrick shifted over onto his back. His eyes went wide with shock at the new, excruciating pain and he immediately passed out. 

Pete screamed for help and finally, FINALLY, an EMT knelt down next to him. 

“It’s going to be okay, what happened?” The EMT efficiently started checking Patrick out. 

“He slipped off the edge of that platform and hit his side and his head and passed out.” 

“From pain or from the head injury?” 

“Pain, I think, oh my god--” Pete let go of Patrick’s hand to press both hands to his mouth. 

“Sir. Sir. It’s going to be okay, he has a few broken ribs and maybe a concussion. He’s going to be fine.” 

“I- I can’t--” 

“You don’t have to.” The EMT looked up at Pete. “You the boyfriend? Come with in the ambulance, but he’s going to be fine.” The other EMTs had put Patrick on a stretcher and were lifting him up. 

“Okay,” it was all Pete could do to follow them numbly offstage. 

The rain began to pour again. 

The crowd was silent. 

\---

Patrick woke up slowly. Everything was pale colors and blurry, slowly coalescing into fluorescent lights and a hospital room. He was dimly aware of a hand in his, and he turned his head slowly and fairly painfully, to see who the hand belonged to. He was pretty sure it was Pete dozing off by his bedside, but everything was still blurry-- oh, he probably wasn’t wearing glasses. He opened his mouth to say something but ended up just coughing gently and oh, fuck, fuck, FUCK, that was absolutely the source of his pain. He heard a noise like a wounded animal and realized that it came from his mouth as Pete’s head shot up in alarm. 

“Patrick, oh thank GOD, oh my god, hi, I’m so sorry,” Pete said in a panic. 

“It’s… it’s okay,” Patrick said hoarsely. He could manage talking and breathing, but his side was pulsing with a dull ache. “What happened? And can I have my glasses?” 

“Of course, I got you,” Pete reached over to the bedside table for Patrick’s glasses and placed them gingerly onto his nose. 

“Thanks,” Patrick smiled shakily. “What happened?” 

“Uh, you slipped on the wet plastic of Andy’s platform and cracked two ribs and smacked your head on the side of the thing when you went down. We’re at St. Joseph’s.” 

“Oh,” it was really all Patrick could say. That would certainly explain the pain. 

“Sweetheart, are you okay?” Pete grabbed Patrick’s hand again and squeezed. “Can I get you anything?” 

“I mean, I’m in a little pain, but I think I’m okay,” Patrick mumbled. 

“Babe, what’s wrong?” Pete looked down at him, eyebrows drawn in concern. 

“What time is it?” Patrick asked, eyes unfocused, staring into the middle distance of anxiety. 

“It’s 8:45 at night, hon.” Pete whipped his phone out of his pocket and read off the time. 

“Oh,” Patrick’s eyes filled with tears. They clearly had stopped the show and cancelled it by now. Fuck. 

“Patrick, what’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Patrick lied. At that moment, footsteps approached Patrick’s room and there was a light knock on the doorframe. Patrick did his best to blink away the tears and looked at the figure standing in the doorway. 

“Hi,” a short, dark-skinned woman in scrubs tentatively stepped into the room. “Good to see you awake, Mr. Stump.” 

“Good to… be awake? I guess?” Patrick smiled, but it hurt a little. 

“A sense of humor, excellent. First sign that nothing’s serious is the ability to crack a joke. I’m Dr. Kulkarni.” 

“I’m Patrick and this is my boyfriend Pete,” Patrick held up the hand that was still holding Pete’s in its grasp and Pete smiled at the doctor worriedly. 

“Well, Patrick, you have two broken ribs and a head injury. We don’t think you have a concussion, but would you mind if I gave you a little test just to confirm now that you’re awake?” 

“Sure,” Patrick hoped he didn’t sound as uncertain as he felt. He wasn’t really feeling up to moving his head anytime soon due to the shitty throbbing above his left ear. 

“All I need you to do is just follow a few things with your eyes and answer a few questions, okay?” Dr. Kulkarni smiled at him and said, as though she had read his mind. 

“Okay,” Patrick genuinely did feel a little more reassured. He followed her fingers and then a light as they moved past his eyes in all different directions. Dr. Kulkarni asked him what year it was, among a host of other simple questions. He had no difficulty answering any of them. 

“You absolutely do not have a concussion,” She said when she had finished. “You’ve got a nasty bump on the left side of your head and probably will have a headache and some bruising, but don’t worry. No concussion.” 

“At least there’s that,” Pete breathed out in half a relieved laugh. 

“Thank you so much,” Patrick intoned, also incredibly relieved. 

“Don’t thank me! It’s what I do.” Dr. Kulkarni smiled. “I’d like to keep you overnight so that we can figure out your pain management, but you should be okay to be released tomorrow. Do you have someone who can take care of you for about a week until you heal up a little?”

“Doc, I’m sitting right here,” Pete joked. 

“Husband?” She asked. Pete shook his head. “Fiancee?”

“No, um, we live together, but uh..”

“Ah, hey, fair enough.” The doctor laughed nervously and briskly moved the conversation on, away from the awkward subject. “Make sure he rests, okay?” She turned to Patrick and looked down at him kindly. “What you need right now is to relax and just focus on getting better. I can see that anxiety happening and I just kind of want to cut it off at the pass, okay? I know you have obligations in your life, but you are in no condition to fulfill them right now. Please just let yourself rest. You’ve been through a lot of trauma today.” 

“Okay,” Patrick hoped he didn’t sound dismissive. She had seen right through him, but he doubted that his anxiety would listen to her. 

“And hey,” She patted Pete’s shoulder. “You’re both going to be perfectly fine.” 

“Thank you so much,” Pete said. Patrick agreed. Dr. Kulkarni smiled and nodded. She left them alone, the quiet scuffs of her sneakers on the tile fading as she walked down the hallway 

“Hey,” Pete said, bringing Patrick’s hand closer to him and kissing it. “See? You’re gonna be okay.” 

“Yeah,” Patrick squeezed Pete’s hand. “Thank you so much for being here.” 

“Are you serious? Babe, how could I be anywhere else?” 

Footsteps approached the room, quelling the tide of emotion that was clotting in Patrick’s throat. 

Joe and Andy walked in, looking at first anxious and then much happier upon seeing Patrick conscious and seemingly not in pain. 

“Hey, you two! Patrick, you’re awake!” Joe said, utterly relieved. He thrust a squishy caramel brown teddy bear at Patrick, who generally didn’t go in for that sort of thing, but it looked like a speed bump and he found himself instantly fond of it. He cradled it against his right side, his unhurt side, and grinned. 

“Joe, this bear is an idiot and I love it. Thank you so much.” 

“Hey! He’s not the only one who brought presents!” Andy protested and held out another identical lumpy bear in a peachy color instead of the brown that Joe’s was. Patrick laughed a little and immediately stopped, tears springing to his eyes and hand flying to his ribs at the pain it caused. Pete immediately stood up and put a hand on Patrick’s shoulder to soothe him. 

“What happened?” Andy asked Patrick quietly, tucking the smooshy peach bear in next to the brown one in the crook of Patrick’s right arm. 

Pete answered, mercifully. 

“He broke two ribs and hit his head. No concussion, though.” 

“Thank fuck,” Joe said, popping a squat in one of the chairs on the other side of the bed. “I’m really sorry you’re in pain, Trick, but it could have been so much worse.” 

“Yeah, it really could have,” Patrick said hollowly. He wasn’t sure anything could be worse than this. Worse than having to stop their Wrigley fucking Field show. Worse than stopping Pete, Andy, and Joe from living the literal dream right in the middle of the best part. Worse than letting down the fans. This was Soul Punk all over again, only this time it was undeniably worse.

“Patrick,” Pete leaned over and got close to him. Patrick realized he was crying. “Honey, what’s wrong?” 

“I… I need to sleep.” Patrick turned away and bit his lips together. 

“Are you sure?” Pete asked. Patrick was vaguely aware of Andy and then Joe squeezing his hand and quietly leaving the room.

“Yeah,” Patrick blinked rapidly to stop himself from continuing to cry. 

“Can I…?” Pete gestured to the space in the bed next to Patrick. 

“You’ll have to move the bears,” Patrick tried to joke. 

“They can stay too.” Pete smiled a little and put the bed’s railing down. He gently placed the bears on Patrick’s chest and snuggled himself into the space next to Patrick, resting his head on Patrick’s right, uninjured shoulder. He put his hand on one of the bears and didn’t wrap it directly around Patrick as it would have rested on his broken ribs. “Is this okay?” 

Despite Patrick feeling like absolute shit, it was actually quite nice. 

“Yeah,” Patrick agreed, feeling bone-deep exhaustion creep up on him. He could succumb to the sleep that he so badly needed for a few hours and focus on how he was going to make this right later. 

“I love you, Patrick.” Pete said quietly against Patrick’s chest. 

“I love you too,” Patrick whispered. “I love you so fucking much.” 

The unspoken _but I don’t deserve you_ looped horribly in Patrick’s head until he finally slipped into unconsciousness. 

\---

Pete woke up first. He gently raised himself up on his elbow to look at Patrick’s sleeping face. He looked wonderfully untroubled as he slept, face slack and glasses knocked all crooked-- they had clearly both forgotten he was wearing them as they had fallen asleep from the sheer exhaustion of it all. 

He sat up slowly and as gingerly as possible and extricated himself from Patrick’s arm. As he stood up from the bed, he turned around and took Patrick’s glasses off as deftly as he could manage. There was a little red mark on his nose from where they had rested, and Pete resisted the urge to kiss it. 

Pete stretched a little and slumped into the bathroom to rinse his mouth out and splash some water on his face. He pulled his hair back into a little bun and rubbed his eyes after he had woken up a little. When he came out of the bathroom, Patrick was beginning to stir and wake up. 

“Hey,” Pete was at his side before he fully opened his eyes. “Good morning, honey. How are you feeling?” 

“Uh…” Patrick cleared his throat. “Maybe a little better. Still hurts. Maybe not as bad, though.” 

“That’s good! That’s really good,” Pete was genuinely excited. 

“Yeah, I don’t have as miserable a headache for sure.” It was more of a tenderness and less of an oblique ache.

“Maybe we should see about blowing this popsicle stand, what do you think?” 

“I think that sounds really good,” Patrick smiled a little up at Pete. They both turned to look as they heard a scraping, jingling sound at the door-- a nurse was entering the room, bringing a full tray of breakfast. 

“Good morning,” she greeted both of them. “Eat up, Mr. Stump. You should be out of here in an hour or two, so you’ll need all the energy you can get to make it home!” She laid the plate of bacon, eggs, sausage, toast, and hashbrowns in front of Patrick and he actively felt his mouth water. 

“I think I can manage that,” He liked her, so he made the effort to joke. 

“Very good. I’ll send the doctor in in half an hour to get your discharge started.” 

“Thank you so much,” Patrick said, distracted by the breakfasty smell. She grinned and acquiesced to let him eat. And eat Patrick did. For hospital food, it was not fuckin’ bad. 

“You want some?” Patrick gestured to the plate with a mouth full of bacon. 

“Sure,” Pete grinned and reached for a slice of toast and the sausage he knew Patrick wouldn’t eat anyway. 

They shared the meal with Pete occasionally miming feeding a piece of toast or sausage to each of the lumpy little bears until the resident doctor came to discharge Patrick with a strict diagnosis of bed rest for at least a week and a follow-up appointment at St. Joseph’s in seven days exactly. 

After this brief meeting and a slightly embarrassing ten minutes of Patrick legitimately needing Pete’s help getting dressed, Pete wheeled Patrick to the door of the hospital, where Brian was waiting for them in an SUV. 

“Hey champ,” Brian grinned at the two of them as Patrick walked up to the car as slowly and carefully as he was able, clutching at Pete’s arm like his life depended on it. 

“We’re proud parents,” Pete snarked at Brian as he helped a very pained Patrick into the SUV. 

“Oh yeah?” Brian snarked right the fuck back. Pete buckled Patrick in before whipping the two bears out of his reusable Trader Joe’s bag and placing them on Patrick’s lap.

“These are our offspring, yet to be named, courtesy of Andy and Joe.” Pete climbed in the other side of the backseat. “You okay, sweetheart?” 

“Mmmmmmm. I’ll live.” Patrick was in some pain from walking and climbing into the car, but it wasn’t too terrible. 

“Your kids are a little lumpy, but what can you do?” Brian laughed, seeing the bears in the rearview. “Also, Patrick, don’t worry, I will drive extremely carefully and do everything I can to avoid potholes or at least slow way the fuck down.” 

“Good luck with that,” Patrick said through gritted teeth as they pulled out of the hospital driveway. “I love this goddamn city, but Chicago is pretty much one big pothole.” 

\---

“Fuck Emanuel so fucking much,” Patrick growled as Pete unlocked the door to their condo. “I wish I could break some of his ribs and take him for a nice _smooth_ drive through the city.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Pete offered his arm up and Patrick leaned on it heavily as they worked their way through the living room towards the bedroom. “Do you need help getting pajamas on?” 

“Like, yeah,” Patrick sat down slowly on the bed. “I’m really sorry.” 

“Babe, don’t you dare apologize for being in pain.” Pete said as they began the slow process of gingerly undressing and pajama-ing. 

“It’s a force of habit,” Patrick supplied. 

“Yeah, and I’m going to break you of that habit one day.” 

“Good fucking luck,” Patrick pulled his old The Who t-shirt down the last few inches and sank into bed, exhausted from even the simple action of changing clothes. 

“Now what do you need, sweetheart? Some water? Any food? I want to get you all settled for a little bit because I have to go get this prescription filled for you. I can go to the Walgreens on Belmont and be back in 15.” 

“I’d love some water and the TV remote and Roku thing. I think I want to fall asleep to the Great British Bake Off.” 

“There’s a new season on Netflix! It’s the most recent one with Noel and Sandi.” Pete handed him the remotes and turned to leave the bedroom to fill up a water bottle. 

“It is _not_ the most recent one, season nine has just started airing but we’re already two episodes behind!” 

Pete turned around and just looked at Patrick for a solid ten seconds. 

“Is that your “Jesus Christ I can’t believe I live with this asshole” face or?” Patrick smiled apologetically. 

“No,” Pete crossed the room in two brisk strides and kissed Patrick gently. He pulled back just a little. “It’s my “I’ve never loved you more than right now” face.” 

“Oh,” Patrick said faintly, and Pete kissed him again. 

“You are literally too precious for this world. Now please relax and watch your Bake Off and I’ll grab some water and go get this prescription. I’ll be back in 15, okay? And if you need me or want me to pick anything up from Walgreens, text me.” 

“Will do,” Patrick smiled despite the mounting dread of having to be alone with his thoughts. He’d done a really good job of not thinking about the self hatred and anxiety shitstorm so far, mostly because of stupid fucking Rahm Emanuel and his fucking goddamn potholes and the ensuing pain. 

Pete brought Patrick his water bottle and kissed his forehead, making him promise again to text him if he needed anything, and left to run to the Walgreens. 

Patrick did his best to concentrate on fruity cakes and Noel Fielding’s ice blue eyes, but his mind was a maelstrom of shitty, anxious thoughts. Would he have to put out another statement like he’d had to do for Soul Punk? How much would the refunds cost? Would they be able to make up the difference in merch sales? Would the fans be disappointed? Angry? Would they drag Patrick on the internet? Probably. He knew he deserved it. He had his phone out and the App Store open to redownload Twitter before he thought better of it. He was in no state to be making an apology post right now. He owed everyone more thought and something just… better than that. Plus, it was probably a good idea to talk to Brian and assess exactly what had to be done for damage control. That’s what he should do, talk to Brian. He dialed his number and after three rings, the man himself picked up. 

“Patrick, hey! Are you okay? Do you need anything?” 

“Yeah, no, I’m fine, nothing’s wrong, I’m in bed and hopefully recovering,” Patrick’s voice was traitorously shaky. 

“Okay, is Pete taking good care of you?” 

“The best. He just ran out to get a prescription filled for me, so I thought I’d give you a call and talk about what we need to do for, uh, damage control.” 

“Damage control?” Brian sounded genuinely confused. 

“I fucked up and now everyone’s out of their ticket price and we have to do something about this to make sure the fans are refunded and satisfied and--” 

“Patrick Martin Stump. Do you honestly think that this is your fault?” 

There was silence for a good twenty seconds while Patrick sat stunned, mouth open.

“Patrick, please do not worry about this. I promise you there is nothing to be worried about! All everyone wants is for you to be okay, okay?” 

“Okay,” Patrick hoped he didn’t sound as small as he felt. Brian didn’t have to lie like that just to placate Patrick’s ego and make him stop worrying, but he just couldn’t bring himself to continue this conversation. He felt pure exhaustion seep through him and all he wanted in that moment was just to hang up the phone and cry himself to sleep in front of Bake Off. He thanked Brian and did exactly that. 

\---

Pete arrived home to find Patrick asleep, snuggling both squishy bears, in front of a TV that was jingling merrily and extolling the virtues of something called “illusion cakes.” He set the prescription bag down on the bedside table next to Patrick quietly and headed out into the living room to kick off his shoes. As he put them on the shoe rack next to the door, his phone vibrated. It was Brian and it was a call. Pete assumed he was calling to check on Patrick, and he made a mental note to text the FOB group chat just to update them that Patrick was okay as he answered. 

“Go for Wentz.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Brian laughed. “That has to be the worst way you’ve answered one of my calls in a damn long time.” 

“Listen,” Pete laughed. “I got that professional steeze.” 

“No the fuck you do NOT. Anyway, how’s the patient?” Brian asked. So Pete had been right. 

“Seems okay, he’s sleeping in front of the TV right now. I just rolled out for a minute to get him a prescription.” 

“Yeah, I know. He called me while you were gone asking about damage control.” Brian’s voice got less brash, more concerned. 

“He what?!” Pete had to remind himself to be quiet halfway through his exclamation.

“He called me sounding absolutely wrecked, asking about what we were going to do to make this up to the fans or some shit. Pete, he thinks this whole thing is like. Another Soul Punk. Which wasn’t something anyone would describe as his fault either. He’s blaming himself for this and thinking people aren’t creating a ‘pray for Patrick’ hashtag and sending our office get-well-soon gifts. Literally no one’s mad or asking for refunds and I would honestly be incredibly surprised if they had because that’s insensitive as fuck.” 

“Fuck,” Pete breathed. “Of COURSE he’s blaming himself. I knew something was up. I’ll talk to him.” 

“Please do. I really can’t stand knowing that poor guy is beating himself up while also being in a not inconsiderate amount of physical pain.” 

“No, I’ll talk to him, I’m sorry.”

“The two of you with this self-flagellation shit!” Brian barked. “Stop fucking apologizing! Neither of you have done anything wrong! Shit happens! I don’t want to fucking hear another apology out of either of you sons of bitches as long as I live, Jesus!” 

Pete had to laugh at that. 

“Thanks, Bri.” 

“It’s what I’m here for. Thanks in advance for talking some sense into your man. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do. I haven’t cancelled any shows or anything yet because we did schedule a month’s break after Wrigley and Google says broken ribs heal in a month or two.” 

“You always know just what to do,” Pete said, half joking, but it definitely rang true as well. That was why Brian had been their manager since they came back from hiatus-- he really did have a knack for finding the most agreeable solution to any issue. 

“I try. Take care, okay? And take care of Patrick.” 

“Yeah, I will. Bye!” 

After they hung up, Pete sat on the living room couch for a solid couple of minutes lost in thought. Patrick should not feel bad about this in any way, full stop, and the fact that he did was almost heartbreaking. Did he really think so little of himself that he believed people would blame him or be angry at him for a complete accident that involved him getting badly hurt? The answer to that, unfortunately, was yes. Pete clasped his hands together. He had to do something about this. He couldn’t let Patrick keep beating himself up about a situation he had no control over; not to mention that both industry people and fans were actively being sympathetic towards him and wishing him well instead of being rude and angry. 

Pete’s train of thought was interrupted by Bake Off getting louder in the other room-- Patrick was upping the volume, which meant he was awake. 

“Hey,” Pete poked his head into the bedroom. Patrick swiped his fingers under his eyes and Pete’s chest hurt. He’d been crying. 

“Hey,” Patrick said weakly. 

“Your prescription is right next to you; how are you feeling?” Pete sat down on his side of the bed and kissed Patrick’s forehead. 

“I’m okay,” Patrick lied. 

“Are you in any pain?” Pete asked. 

“Yeah, a little. But it’s fine, I don’t think I get to take another pill for an hour or two.” 

“Okay. Let me know if it gets bad, okay?” Pete lifted up his arm and scooted closer to Patrick so that Patrick could rest his head back on Pete’s shoulder. 

“I will.” 

“I just got a call from Brian,” Pete said and Patrick stiffened up. “Sweetheart, don’t worry, it was nothing. He said that you feel responsible for this and you asked him about damage control.” 

“We can’t just do nothing about this, Pete,” Patrick pulled back to sit against his own pillows and grimaced at the pain from doing so. 

“No one wants you to do anything about anything except get better, babe. I know you think that this is your fault but can I just. Can I say some stuff to you that might give you a better idea of what’s going on?” 

Patrick nodded warily. 

“Okay, first of all, I’m so sorry that you’ve been bottling this up. You’re _not alone_ , babe. I’m right here with you and I love you so much and I’m going to take care of you.” Pete grabbed Patrick’s hand and Patrick squeezed hard the moment he did it, eyes welling with tears. “Now would you please actually listen to me very closely when I say that this is _not your fault_ and no one is blaming you for an accident that happened to you. If I was hurt by an accident would you blame me?” 

Patrick looked genuinely at a loss for words. 

“Honey, no one wants a refund. No one wants anything but for you to get better. Our fans love and care about you and you have a month before you’re supposed to be anywhere to do anything.” Pete pulled out his phone and opened Twitter. He tapped the search button and #WeLoveYouPatrick came up as the seventh trending topic. Pete clicked on it and handed the phone to Patrick. Patrick scrolled and scrolled and put a hand to his mouth and cried silently. 

“You’re so hard on yourself, honey. Please just trust me when I say that no one is, or ever could be, upset with you for getting hurt. You have nothing to be worried about. This isn’t Soul Punk, and Soul Punk wasn’t even Soul Punk, you have no idea what that album means to me, and so many fans, and you have NEVER let me, or anyone who matters at all, down. EVER.” 

Patrick tipped sideways and buried his face into Pete’s chest, letting out shallow sobs that were interspersed with noises of pain from his ribs, and Pete held him. He brushed Patrick’s hair out of his face and tightened his arm around Patrick’s shoulders. 

“I’m right here. I’ve got you. You are so, so loved, sweetheart. You are so fucking good, okay? I love you so much.” Pete soothed. 

“Thank you,” Patrick gasped and sat back up, breathing hard but trying not to for his ribs’ sake. “I’ve never… been able to see it that way. And now I can see it and I still feel guilty and everything but this really fucking helped. Thank you so fucking much.” 

“Don’t thank me, honey, it’s basic human decency. I love you, and so do the fans, and I know it’s going to take awhile to rewire that way of thinking about yourself, but I will be here every single day to remind you that it’s not your fault and you have absolutely nothing to feel bad about.” 

Pete handed Patrick a tissue box and Patrick wiped his nose and eyes.

“Thank you,” Patrick said again, quietly, and tugged at Pete’s hand until Pete bent forward and kissed him. 

“I love you so much,” Pete pulled back and kissed Patrick’s forehead. 

“I love you more,” Patrick tugged up at Pete’s arm until he raised it and let Patrick lay back on his chest and shoulder. “I’m legit exhausted, having feelings is the fucking worst.”

“Want to rewind this episode of Bake Off and watch it together? I’m curious if a fruity cake is the same thing as a fruitcake.” Pete looked down at Patrick and the expression on Patrick’s face was borderline unreadable. “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“This is my ‘I’ve never loved you more than right now’ face.” Patrick smiled up at him and went in for another kiss.

Pete laughed a little into the kiss. 

“Fruity cakes it is.” 

\---

Two weeks had passed in a cozy melange of cuddles, many skits involving the peach and brown bears, various kinds of takeout, extremely delicious sounding Bake Off challenges, and Patrick’s pain decreasing by degrees. 

“I’m just saying,” Patrick said, gesturing with noodle-filled chopsticks at the TV. “We’ve seen both seasons of Queer Eye twice. It’s not unreasonable for me to rewatch a few seasons of Bake Off because I want you to see all the cute people and innuendos!” 

“Yeah, all right,” Pete conceded and stole the bite of noodles hanging off Patrick’s chopsticks. 

“Ass!” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Pete slurped up the last stray noodle in the mouthful and grinned. 

“You owe me a fried wonton,” Patrick said as he deftly grabbed one and popped it into his mouth, chasing it with a sip of wine. 

“I was gonna give you one anyway,” Pete snarked and kissed Patrick’s cheek. 

“Yeah fuckin’ right,” Patrick retorted. “We should keep this place’s menu. This was some of the best Chinese food I’ve ever had.” 

“Way ahead of you. When I went to get the food I smelled it and that was all it took to make me put the menu in our menu drawer.” 

“This is why I love you,” Patrick grinned and put the empty takeout container on the nightstand. 

“This is the only reason?” Pete fake-pouted. 

“Yep! Just that. Definitely not because you’re crazy fucking handsome and kind and smart and funny and you take such good care of me.” 

“I aim to please,” Pete’s blush betrayed his faux-casual air. He put the wontons and the last of his garlic chicken on his nightstand next to his wine glass and gently pushed both of the bears onto the floor on his side of the bed. “And if you’ll let me, I’d really fucking like to make you feel good right now.” 

“Babe, I’m so sorry, I just don’t think I can handle you fucking me yet.” 

“Who said anything about me fucking you?” Pete crawled over to Patrick and nosed his t-shirt up to kiss his stomach. Patrick shivered a little and was pleased to note that it didn’t hurt. 

“Are you sure? I don’t think I’ll be able to do you in return.” 

“I would not be surprised if I came just from blowing you. I want you so fucking bad.” 

“Jesus. Fuck yes, if you’re gonna talk like that then yes, please--ah!” Patrick moaned as Pete tugged down his boxers and got to work. “God, fuck, you know I fucking love when you do that with your tongue…!” 

Pete laughed and worked his tongue against the underside of Patrick’s cock, feeling him get hard. 

“You’re so fucking good…” Patrick sighed and curled his fingers into Pete’s hair, pulling it loose from its little bun at the back of Pete’s head. Pete murmured an affirmative noise that vibrated against Patrick’s cock and Patrick shuddered a little under Pete’s splayed hands on his thighs. 

Pete took this as an invitation to deepthroat him. 

“GodDAMN it,” Patrick gasped. There was a small twinge of pain attached, but Pete’s mouth was so fucking hot and wet and good that he embraced the pain, relaxed into it like with spanking, and let himself enjoy the sight of Pete bobbing up and down. 

“You want more?” Pete pulled off momentarily. Patrick’s cock twitched at the sight of Pete looking up at him like that, pupils dilated and just sexy as fuck. 

‘Yes,” Was all Patrick could say.

“Beg me for it,” Pete smirked. Patrick felt himself get even harder. 

“Please,” Patrick moaned. “Please, babe, I need it, please…” 

Pete looked both satisfied and turned on by this, and he licked a stripe under the head of Patrick’s cock just to watch him squirm. 

“More.” 

“Fuuuuck, please, please, I need your mouth, I need--” Patrick cut off in a moan as Pete sucked just the head into his mouth and used his tongue in slow circles, looking up at him the whole time, prompting him for more begging with just his expression. 

“Please!” Patrick grabbed at the blankets with one hand and Pete’s hair with the other. “Please, I’m fucking begging you, I need it so fucking bad, I can’t fucking take it anymore!”

Pete took him as deep as he could before bobbing up and down, working on creating that perfect suction seal with his mouth that always made Patrick borderline cry from pleasure. Patrick’s hips twitched involuntarily up as Pete sucked, making Pete have to press down on Patrick’s thighs and grind himself into the bed just a little from the effort. He was suddenly aware of how goddamn fucking hard he was. 

“I’m going to come just from this,” He pulled off and panted to Patrick, working his hips against the bed and watching Patrick’s cock leak and strain. 

“That’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever heard,” Patrick breathed. Pete breathed hotly against Patrick’s cock as he ground himself harder into the mattress. Patrick full-body shivered and grabbed hard at Pete’s hair, pulling his head up. “I wanna see you come.”

Those words and that edge of pain from the hair grabbing sent Pete right into a shuddering orgasm. He moaned as Patrick yanked roughly at his hair while he came, prolonging that toe-tingling feeling. As soon as he regained presence of mind, he picked his head up off where it had rested against Patrick’s thigh. He needed to make Patrick feel just as good, like right the fuck now. He licked once at that sweet spot where the underside of the head of Patrick’s cock met the shaft and Patrick immediately came like a shot, cock pulsing and legs shaking hard. He moaned and threw his head back, letting go of Pete’s hair and opting instead to grab at the pillow under his head. He came for a longer time than usual, probably because they hadn’t been able to do anything at all for a few weeks, and it ran down Pete’s cheek and onto his neck. Pete hadn’t even managed to get Patrick back in his mouth before he came, and he found that incredibly flattering and ridiculously hot. 

“Shit, I’m so sorry,” Patrick raised his head. Pete wiped his face off and came up grinning. 

“Don’t be. That was hot.” 

“I mean, okay,” Patrick laughed gently and eased himself up to a sitting position to get out of bed and clean up. Pete followed him into the bathroom, where they both cleaned off and brushed their teeth because why get up later? 

“I love you,” Patrick sighed contentedly as they both got back into bed and cuddled up together. 

“I love you too,” Pete kissed the top of his head. “I got you something.” 

“What?” Patrick looked up at him in that disbelieving way he affected whenever Pete did something nice for him-- like he couldn’t believe he was that lucky. So, naturally, Pete went out of his way to do nice things for him all the time to see that face. 

“Yeah, here.” Pete pulled an envelope out from the under-bed drawer and handed it to Patrick. 

“What is this,” Patrick asked slowly while opening it, defeating the purpose of asking in the first place. He pulled out a piece of paper and read it slowly. “What?” He crowed. 

“Thank Brian.” Pete grinned. The paper was a printout of an email from Brian confirming a second Wrigley Field show a month and two weeks after the first one. Tickets were $15 with a $5 processing fee. Brian had called it the “I Love You Chicago” show and the email detailed a special t-shirt that would be sold at the show with a one-time-only design. It would only be available at Wrigley. Patrick’s eyes brimmed with tears. 

“He was the one who got in touch with them after Daft Punk cancelled their tour.” 

Patrick looked up from the paper and a sob escaped his mouth before he clapped a shaking hand over it. 

“It wasn’t just my dream. Or Joe’s. Or Andy’s. It was all of ours, Trick. I know how much it meant to you to sing at Wrigley.” 

“I can’t even fucking, like, speak right now,” Patrick hiccup-laughed from the crying and held his arms out for a hug. Pete closed the distance between them and felt how much Patrick was shaking as he folded his arms around him. 

“This means the fucking world to me. _You_ mean the world to me.” Patrick said, squeezing Pete as much as he could with the little stab of pain from his ribs. 

“You are my world, Trick.” 

They held each other for a few long moments. Patrick pulled away first to reread the email, hands shaking the paper still. This was one of those once in a lifetime things that Pete had manipulated the universe into happening again, just for Patrick. 

“I will thank Brian, but I don’t think I can ever thank _you_ enough.” 

“Just the way you look right now is all the thanks I could ever want.”

\---

The second Wrigley show was fucking electric. Joe finally acquiesced to having one of those dumb flamethrower things fitted to his guitar, so Pete and Joe both whirled around the stage spraying flames in every direction and just generally being idiots. It was October 14th and a brisk, beautiful fall day. No rain in the forecast for two days on either side of the concert. Andy wore one of those cat ear headbands that people wear to do their makeup as he drummed his face off and Patrick was blessed by a good voice day. They were the only act, so they filled their setlist with requests from Twitter and B-sides like the truly spectacular redux of Carpal Tunnel of Love. They closed with City in a Garden, and as Patrick howled the last “I love you, Chicago,” fireworks burst into the sky above Wrigley Field and Patrick smiled up at them, panting, elated, until the crowd screaming bloody murder brought his attention back to the stage. 

Pete knelt next to him, down on one knee, holding a ring box open with the dumbest fucking grin on his face and a mic in his other hand. 

“I love you just as fucking much as I love Chicago. I always have and I always will. Patrick, will you marry me?” 

Patrick buckled to his knees and threw his arms around Pete, kissing him and crying and shaking and laughing. 

“YES,” He shouted as Pete brought the mic up to the general vicinity of his mouth. The crowd went apeshit and a second round of fireworks followed the first, streaking light across Pete’s tear-striped face as Patrick leaned in and kissed him. 

He had thought playing Wrigley was as close as he was ever going to get to the elusive Perfect Day, but seeing Pete slip a gorgeous, brushed silver ring onto his hand with that nervous-pretty smile made Patrick cry all over again. They both stood shakily and Andy and Joe slammed into them, crushing everyone together into a band group hug. 

“It was so fucking hard not to tell you,” Joe ruffled Patrick’s hair, grinning ear to ear. 

“Yeah, this shithead made us swear,” Andy gave Pete an honest to god noogie. 

“It was worth it,” Patrick sobbed, leaning on Joe for support and not taking his eyes off Pete. The crowd was still clapping. The fireworks had stopped, leaving that acrid, crisp smell in their wake. The stage lights were bright and focused right on the four of them. Andy and Joe pressed Pete and Patrick’s hands together and held their clasped hands up like they were champion boxers or some shit. 

“Congratulations, you fucking reprobates,” Joe was handed a mic by a crying tech. He passed it off to Andy. 

“We fucking love you, Chicago. Thanks for making this one of the best nights of our lives!” Andy said to thunderous applause and screaming. 

Joe pushed Pete and Patrick and they stepped forward, lowering their clasped hands, and Patrick threw himself at Pete, wrapping his arms around his neck and kissing him like his life depended on it. Pete lifted him up and kissed back with everything he had in him. 

It was rom-com perfect. The crowd was a mess, they were a mess, everything was bright and happy and loud and chaotic and just fucking right. 

“Thank you, Chicago! You’ve made me the happiest person in the world tonight!” Pete put Patrick down and accepted a mic from Joe. “We love you so much and I’m so happy that this happened here. You’re our home and we couldn’t be fucking happier. Go kiss your partners and tell someone you love them tonight. I have to take my fiancee and find some god damn champagne!” Pete tossed the mic to one of the techs whose hands were already open for the catch, wrapped his arm around Patrick’s waist, and they walked in step, _together_ , into the warmth of backstage at Wrigley goddamn motherfucking Field.

**Author's Note:**

> [here](https://farm6.static.flickr.com/5300/5403625220_6d9ee8027a_b.jpg) are the weird bears that featured heavily in this because they’re TOO GOOD FOR THIS WORLD. i made up the month-ish break, sue me, but they did take a break after reading and leeds soooo. thank you, yes you, so much for reading, and if you liked this garbage and want to drop me a line i live [here](https://blowmewankenobi.tumblr.com). anyway! thanks for ur time and i love u bye


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